


Helmet Hair

by nerdybloomers



Series: 120 Drabble Challenge [2]
Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: F/M, Pining, Treize stop being such a creeper, still learning how the hell Treize's voice would work written down
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 21:51:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7908886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdybloomers/pseuds/nerdybloomers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her uniform is pristinely pressed, her glasses smudge-free, her gun meticulously cleaned, her boots shined. Her hair must follow suit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Helmet Hair

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not focusing on one pairing for this drabble challenge of mine, because that would probably be pretty stunting. But if you know me, you know that the one Gundam ship I ship hardest, out of every timeline, is Treize and Une. There's just so much potential for what could've been. I feel obligated to play around with it, because there doesn't seem to be that much of it. Most of it leans so damn well to angst and pining, so.
> 
> Prompt #9: Soft Hair.
> 
> 120 Drabble Challenge on my old dA: http://shibaayame.deviantart.com/art/120-Drabble-Challenge-250678524

The first time, I see her undo her hair, I am awestruck.

To her, it’s an inconvenience; she braids and twists and pins and tucks it up and out of the way. Even a single strand not under her control is a nuisance. Her uniform is pristinely pressed, her glasses smudge-free, her gun meticulously cleaned, her boots shined. Her hair must follow suit.

She thought she was alone, tucked in an alcove of a far-removed outpost, frazzled and disheveled. I watched her depressurize her helmet, pulling it from her head and dislodging a blush-pink ribbon in the process. She frowned, plucking the offensive ribbon and its twin free, setting down pin by pin (how did the color of those pins match her hair so well that I had never noticed them?) and finger combing out her braids to reset the style.

I had meant to call out to her, initially. Request a report on mission status regarding her most recent spaceflight. It felt rude, however, to interrupt this highly personal ritual. Perhaps I should not have watched? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, for that short stretch of time. I would not have traded those few minutes for a shortcut to victory.

Instead, I steadied myself and watched her separate and rejoin locks of hair, braiding it back into chestnut-tinted submission, twisting and grabbing and pulling tight to achieve the solid block of braids. I held my breath as she spun and pinned plaits into buns at the nape of her neck.

Before she could turn around, I tucked myself into a nearby room. I did not want to have to admonish her for taking time to tend to her appearance, because I knew she would expect me to be strict with her. I felt the burning shame of a child witnessing something he shouldn’t have, taking joy in that one brief illicit view. I sighed, straightened my own uniform, and stepped out behind her to request my report.

I spent hours that night teaching myself to braid with the cords from my uniform. The coarse ropes felt nothing like the softness I wanted to weave between my fingers.


End file.
